All Rise...

The Charge

It's bold, blushing and slightly wicked!

The Case

"Slightly wicked," indeed. Sunday in New York is one of
those sex comedies from the early 1960s that could just barely bring themselves
to actually mention the word "sex." It was an era in which films were
playing at being liberated, exploring "forbidden" territory with the
giggly naiveté of 11-year-old kids in the schoolyard. That's not
necessarily a criticism; obviously the movies were limited by the restrictions
of the times and had to find creative ways to work around them. For better or
worse, Sunday in New York is very much a product of its time.

Our story centers on a young woman named Eileen Tyler (Jane Fonda, On Golden Pond), who has decided to
come to New York to spend some time with her brother Adam (Cliff Robertson, Spider-Man). Upon arriving, she asks him
a rather blunt question: is it expected of a woman to go to bed with a man after
a certain amount of time, even if she isn't married to him? It seems many of the
boys Eileen have seen have broken up with her because they grew, "tired of
going to the gymnasium and playing handball." Adam is startled by the
query, and informs her that no decent woman should ever feel the need to go bed
with a man before marriage. Alas, Adam's answer is a rather hypocritical one: he
currently has a "friend with benefits" (Jo Morrow, Our Man in Havana) who he sees on a
regular basis.

While out and about in town, Eileen shares a Meet Cute with Mike (Rod
Taylor, The Time Machine). Her lapel gets
stuck to his coat, forcing the two of them to introduce themselves. They go out
to lunch, discover that they dislike each other, then unsuccessfully attempt to
excuse themselves and leave each other notes. This is cute, too. They bump into
each other again later, figure out what happened and decide to start over again.
Mike tells Eileen he's a music critic. Hey, she's a music critic, too! Cute.

It must be noted the Mike and Eileen's shared profession is not used to
promote an interesting discussion of popular music, but rather to pay amusingly
self-serving tribute to the film's composer, Peter Nero. When Eileen arrives in
New York, she gives her brother a new present: the latest Peter Nero album.
Later on, Mike hears a Nero composition on the radio. "Boy, nobody plays
the piano like that Peter Nero," he declares. And he would know; he's a
music critic! In addition to composing the score, Nero supplies the film's title
song (performed by Mel Torme as if he were making up the words as he went
along). Eventually, Nero actually turns up in the film, playing himself at the
appropriately-named Club Nero. *sigh*

At the time I suppose some may have regarded the film as a surprisingly
frank examination of sexuality, in that it acknowledges that unmarried people
occasionally have sex from time to time (gasp!). Today, it plays as a quaint
look into the attitudes of the past. To some extent, the wink-wink nudge-nudge
jokes are a charming change of pace in contrast to the more blatant crudity of
the modern era, but at times they become laughable. In one scene, Eileen
accidentally leaves her bra and nightgown hanging on a door. Mike happens to see
the items, and Nero underscores the moment with a brassy blast intended to
accompany audience hysteria. How brazen! Er, brassiere-en!

However, my primary problem with the film is not its dated attitude towards
sex. Like far too many rom-coms of yesteryear and today, the movie relies on a
series of increasingly difficult-to-swallow contrivances. This is not so
problematic in the early moments when Adam is unsuccessfully attempting to set
up a sexy liaison with his gal-pal, but the latter half of the film (in which
arrival of Eileen's beau from out-of-town causes Adam and Mike to switch
identities for reasons too complicated to explain) induces more headaches than
laughs.

Fonda fares pretty well in one of her early leading roles, bringing an
innocent charm that's so very far from the crusty matriarchs of Georgia Rule and Monster-in-Law. Rod Taylor spends too much
of his screen time mugging for the camera, but Cliff Robertson turns in an
impressively understated performance. Robert Culp goes absurdly over-the-top as
the aforementioned out-of-town beau, successfully demonstrating that humor is
not generated by force of will.

The DVD transfer is hit-and-miss, as some moments feature quite a few
scratches and flecks while others look pretty clean. Flesh tones are a bit
reddish at times. The audio is solid enough, with the jazzy score mostly
sounding reasonably sharp. Dialogue is clean and clear. The only extra on the
disc is a theatrical trailer.

Fonda fans or those with a bias towards this sort of lightweight fluff may
enjoy the flick, but I wouldn't recommend Sunday in New York to the
casual viewer. As usual, this release from the Warner Archive does little to
seal the deal for those on the fence.